


Ghost of a Remembrance

by chibinocho



Category: A Charm of Magpies Series - K. J. Charles
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Attempted Sexual Assault, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Repressed Memories, warlockry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:55:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29616705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibinocho/pseuds/chibinocho
Summary: "You’d have a fair few ghosts yourself.” Crane had said to him when they had sat together in the pew...Set just after A Case of Spirits Stephen cannot sleep and finds himself recalling one of his own ghosts.
Relationships: Stephen Day/Lucien Vaudrey
Kudos: 7





	Ghost of a Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written on the back of several insomnia racked nights where I just needed to write something and it's mentioned through the books how much Stephen has seen throughout his career and how much he has had to hide.
> 
> Warning: it does imply attempted sexual assault

The clock in the hallway struck it's customary soft chime indicating that it was three in the morning. Stephen Day looked up into the darkness from the soft pillows in surprise at the lateness of the hour. He had barely managed to do more than doze for the past four hours; his mind racing with everything that had passed over the last two days. Merrick. Saint. The gin from the Old Tom. Those poor blinded people and the overwhelming regrets of their memories. The agonised pain in Lucien's face as he searched Stephen's own for any hope of a cure or a solution to save the man who for all intents and purposes was Crane’s true family. Then the dizzying relief as Merrick and Saint finally opened their eyes under Doctor Gold's ministrations. Stephen’s head was still rolling with the joy he had felt at seeing Saint’s pale gaze and he could still feel the painful pulse of his heart as he had watched Lucien Vaudrey, Earl Crane and Viscount Fortunegate fall to his knees by Merrick’s side and embrace him as a brother.

And then this evening, filled with passionate, relieved - almost celebratory - lovemaking with Lucien should have had him sated, relieved and calm. 

However, his own mind refused to quieten, still pulsing inside his skull with a thousand thoughts.

As if sensing his lover was awake, Lucien Vaudrey, Lord Crane stirred in his sleep and reached out a tired, sluggish arm with a questioning murmur. After some bleary eyed searching and groping, he found his lover and shuffled across the bed to press close to Stephen, his large hand reaching out for Stephen's side to pull his bare back flush against his hard muscled chest. His warmth suffused through Stephen's back and he felt a coil of heat in his belly as Crane pressed a sleepy kiss to the top of his head, murmured some affectionate words and settled back down into sleep, wholly content now he had his lover firmly back in his arms.

Stephen relaxed back into Crane's protective embrace but still sleep was elusive so he contented himself with simply lying in Crane's arms and staring into the darkness.

“You’d have a fair few ghosts yourself.” Crane had said to him when they had sat together in the pew both silently begging for the news to come of a cure that would end the terror of possibly seeing the people closest to them go blind. Stephen had been too tired to say any more but he had been beyond grateful for that as he hadn't wanted to say more. He hadn't wanted to consider burdening Crane with his many regrets, his failures and his memories. He couldn't do that to the man.

Not yet.

Maybe one day.

Then, in the cool darkness of Crane's bedroom and with Crane's arms holding him safe as an anchor in the storm, Stephen allowed himself to fall into a remembrance.

It had been a bad business. One of the trainee Justiciars - an earnest young man called Bonnington that Stephen had taken on after his failures within other teams - had been turned. He had been far too easy a target for turning: not enough power to truly excel but so eager for money and status as the eldest child of a large family who had fallen on hard times. He had been a perfect target for some of the more established, unrepentant warlocks of London and after several unexplained absences and a hasty meeting with Esther who confirmed his scent of evil magic, they had been forced to go after one of their own. Esther and Stephen had then tracked Bonnington down to the darker parts of the East End and found the man within a tatty boarding house. Bonnington had been laughing, even as the withered and drawn body of the prostitute had been slumped at his feet, breathing her last. He had been thrilled to see them, bright-eyed and flushed with power.

“I can do it, Mr Day!” He had trilled, hands shaking with too much power. “I can pass training!” his voice had been tense with a maniacal cheerfulness and his watery blue eyes had shone with preternatural light.

Esthers’ face had set in a grim line as she heard Stephen’s sharp intake of breath and hesitation.

“We have to do it, Steph. This is the third one he has taken. He isn’t coming back from this.”

Stephen had nodded wordlessly. 

“I’m sorry, Bill.” he whispered, reached out his hand and with Bonnington’s expression of shocked realisation seared into his memory, he killed him with a single thought.

On the way back, he had then told Esther he was going to follow up on a lead into the warlock that had corrupted Bonnington. This was not a far-fetched lie to tell; corrupting warlocks very rarely strayed from their newly-corrupted targets as they were tremendous sources of power themselves and rich pickings. Stephen had made it clear that he had promising time-dependent information to follow up on. Esther had looked at him askance but shrugged and offered to meet him tomorrow morning before reporting in, slipping away into the descending fog. 

Stephen had felt wretched lying to his partner. He had no leads at all beyond what he already knew. Things were getting more and more stretched at the Justiciary and Stephen knew he was starting to become exhausted. Exhausted men made mistakes. He needed to get his head back on straight and let out some frustrations. The simple truth was he needed time away from his endless circle of work-eat-sleep. He needed time to feel away from everything. Needed time to put all his cares and woes to one side - just for a moment - and to go to someone who didn't give a fuck and just forget he was Stephen Day even if only for a while.

It hadn't taken long. Within half an hour of sitting down in that particularly well-known-for-all-the-wrong-reasons public house in Camden Town with a solitary pint, he had been joined by a cheery-faced docker obviously from the barges with broad shoulders and an eager expression. They had exchanged little more than courtesies and lying small talk - avoiding names - you always avoided names - and a few idle words before Stephen had drained his tankard, swiped his mouth and indicated to the door with a nod.

They had done it in a quiet dark alley behind the music hall. Neither of them had been particularly keen on penetration, both far too frustrated with the need to get off quickly. The docker - thankfully not too tall - had then fucked against Stephen, pressing him back against the cool brick without gentleness, hands gripping his hips and almost lifting him off the floor, rubbing their cocks together furiously. The docker’s hands were large, callused and left bruises on Stephen’s sides and wrist as he jerked him like a puppet, thrusting his hips upwards, swearing with his desire to come. Stephen had then reached between them, gripped their arousals in his gloved hand and jerked them both to a perfunctory and mostly satisfactory release with the docker groaning near his ear. The docker then stepped back from him - offering a threadbare handkerchief from his pocket with an embarrassed smile of awkward politeness - and they cleaned up. A simple, mostly pleasant diversion that neither would speak of to anyone else.

A usual encounter then.

And then the two others arrived. They had obviously been waiting in the shadows for their chance to strike. The docker had panicked and managed to get past them, pushing through at a run and sacrificing his paltry purse to ensure his escape but Stephen hadn't been so fast, had been easily cornered and backed up against the roughened wall. Stephen wished he felt scared. Scared of attack or even angry that these men would dare attack him but he only felt tired. Tired of working. Tired of furtive intimacy in alleys. Tired of the loneliness and being reduced to back alley groping. Tired of seeing friends and colleagues being turned. Just so goddamn fucking tired.

"Not now gentlemen." He had said wearily and didn't even flinch when the bigger of the two let loose a punch that felt like an iron bar to his face and had him spitting blood.

The cobblestone alley had been cold and hard on his knees and arms as the men wrestled him to the ground and began to work at tearing at his suit, intent on assaulting him further. The ground was cold and damp, seeping through his clothes and chilling the swelling pain in his face. He knew he could finish this simply by tapping into the etheric flow and flinging out a wave of force but his mind was still roiling, black with his failure that he couldn't think clearly enough to pull enough force towards him. He wondered if he deserved this.

"Hold the little molly fucker still." Came the voice behind him, gripping his thin coat and shoving a knee into his back to hold him still. Stephen heard the rustling of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle and felt a flash of anger. 

And then he had been seized by that thought. The thought that he had always tried never to even consider. He could get out of this so easily. He just needed more power. Why not take it from these men? These criminals who thought of nothing from robbing, raping and killing in the dark? They didn't deserve to live so surely their lives were put to better use as a source for Stephen to dispense justice?

It would be so, so easy.

And then, with an horrified cry at what he had just considered in his misery, Stephen turned all his temptation inwards and - with a cry of rage - violently stripped himself.

Blazing with the sudden rush of power, he let loose a blast of force so violent that the men were flung backwards and slammed against the walls of the alley. They charged back at him yelling obscenities but rising to his feet, Stephen had flung one final blast of power at the men that had both on their knees and with a single swift thought, rendered both unconscious, leaving them in slumped on the cobbles before slamming both his hands on the alley wall and vomiting so hard he almost choked. He had then staggered out of the alley with bleeding hands, a throbbing face and bruised body, shaking with terror about what he had so nearly become.

Stephen had walked back to his lodgings then. Not the most sensible move given the slowness of his pace, the pain he was in and the familiar drained feeling from the stripping but he needed to. He needed to walk off the guilt; the pain and nauseated feeling that was already threatening to have him vomiting in the street this time. He was also acutely aware that he was exuding an aura of sheer black anger which - although self-directed - meant people were actively moving away from him. This made things easier, enabling him to reach his lodgings with no hassle, stagger up the rickety stairs on shaking legs, collapse onto the cold bed and cry. Cry for seeing Bonnington turn, cry for needing the kind of physical intimacy that the rest of the world condemned, cry for the shock of being attacked and most of all, cry for the man he had so very nearly become in the name of revenge.

He had been so disgusted with himself that less than a day later, he had been back on the streets with renewed zeal; determined to throw himself into his duties and vowing never again to be so foolish as to put himself into that position of vulnerability. Esther hadn’t questioned his appearance or his new source of drive and for that he was eternally grateful. And when the Underhill case had arrived on their desk only weeks later, he had seized the opportunity to prove and redeem himself.

If Stephen had drunk that gin, he would have seen himself. The ghost of the warlock he would have become. The ghost he vowed never to be.

Which was all to shit now really because he now had a lover, a never-ending power source and was rapidly becoming frustrated with his duties. So much for vows. Stephen drew in a shaky breath.

"Stephen? Are you alright?"

Crane's sleep-hazed voice pulled Stephen sharply back to the present and back to Crane's enormous bed with Crane still pressed up against his back. His lover’s strong body was curled around him as if protecting him, holding him close. He reached down to squeeze Crane's hand that was still resting on his belly, the side of his little finger resting near the dark curls between his legs.

"Yes." he lied but knew that Crane would see through that lie anyway. "I was … Just remembering things I wish I couldn’t.” he drew in a breath, trying not to let his shudder seem too obvious. “I will never be more grateful that I didn't drink the gin."

Crane's silence was an invitation to explain more that Stephen just couldn't take but he knew his lover wouldn’t judge him for it. They lay in the quiet in the darkness for a while, simply breathing together, each taking silent strength from the other. Crane's breath was warm against the crown of his head as he spoke.

"Whatever it is." His voice was still low and rumpled with sleep. "Whatever you have been through, it has brought you to this. Brought you to me." Crane's hand across his belly tightened and the rapidly hardening length of Crane's cock now pressing insistently between Stephen's thighs, nudging at his balls. "And if you keep thinking this loudly, I obviously did not do a good enough job of tiring you out." 

Stephen rolled within his embrace to face him, capturing his face between his hands and kissing him deeply and fully.

“Then you need to make me remember.”


End file.
